Fantastic Beasts and How to Fight Them
by mellowenglishgal
Summary: Nicolette Burkhardt has known she's a Grimm for four months - until a cat-scratch put her into a mystical coma and erased her memories of Wesen and of Charlie, her fiancé. The effects of a Zaubertranke will have lasting repercussions as the Laufer rises against the Royals and the Wesen world chooses sides. A gender-bent Grimm story. Eventual Nicolette/Meisner.
1. Prologue

**A.N.** : I love our Nick Burkhardt, but I am curious how the story would've gone if he had been a _her_ , but the others stay the same – with the exception of Adalind, who becomes Adam. So the story shifts quite dramatically even just without Adalind.

And with Nicolette, she's sexy and quirky but tough as nails – think Lorelei Gilmore meets Sam Winchester, with an inherent love of _Disney_ , doughnuts, _Jurassic Park_ , 1970s music, not a great cook but an amazing baker, a sexy, sweet, athletic, less tempestuous Lorelei who is an amazing cop and detective – goofy marshmallow on the outside, strong as adamantium on the inside. Professional, and goes above and beyond to help people; a deeply loyal friend, a fun, sexy girlfriend, your worst nightmare as an enemy. Her looks are modelled a little off Lily Collins – that intense natural prettiness.

* * *

 **Fantastic Beasts and How to Fight Them**

 _Prologue_

* * *

"So this…all of this is real."

"Real as us standing here."

"Guess I was still half-hoping you'd yell April Fool's or something," Hank sighed heavily, shaking his head, carefully turning the fragile pages of an old-looking book covered in ink sketches and paragraphs in foreign languages, annotations, drawings, anatomical and botanic sketches. He sighed, shaking his head, amazed. "Where did Nick get all of these books?"

"It's her family legacy. Some of 'em date way back, I mean, this…this is a museum of Wesen history right here," Monroe said, smiling proudly around the Airstream. On the outside it had looked normal; inside, it was a time-capsule, better suited to Sherlock Holmes' house than anything. A world forgotten; a world only Nicolette could see, knew about.

"A lot of dangerous information, in the wrong hands…" Rosalee said softly, gazing around the trailer, stocked as it was with aged manuscripts and medieval weapons, potions, tinctures, ingredients that made Rosalee gasp with surprise at their rarity. Hank knew her family were apothecaries, an outdated term and profession that had been replaced by chemists and doctors – but her clientele were those for whom human doctors could do very little. According to Monroe, it was to Rosalee and the Spice Shop that any sensible Wesen in Portland went to for medical attention. Even the not-so-sensible ones, too.

"Nicolette's different, y'know, protect the innocent, kill the evildoing Wesen – at least, the ones she can't get a conviction against in a court of law," Monroe said, and Rosalee smiled softly to herself as she secured bottles full of liquids and herbs. "Which, I gotta say, after having my childhood nightmares filled with her ancestors, it's a refreshing change of pace."

"That why you're working so hard to help her?"

"She's our friend. There are very few good Grimms – a _lot_ of very bad Wesen," Monroe sighed, shaking his head. "Nicolette's changed the world. Ours, at least." He shot Rosalee a smile. "Portland's a different city since she realised who she is. And word's spreading."

"But, the wrong Wesen find out that she can't remember? Especially the enemies she's made…there are plenty of people who'd love to be able to get their hands on her," Rosalee said sternly, sharing a concerned look with Monroe. "Not remembering who she is will make it a lot easier, and a Grimm who isn't aware of Wesen politics could be used to cause a lot of damage by very dangerous people."

"Not to mention the fact, she'll be a lot easier to kill," Monroe said sombrely.

"She thinks she's losing it. She told me she thinks she's seeing ghosts, all over her house, all over the city, says she's missing things, like there's something important just _gone_ ," Hank sighed. "Says she can feel it in her gut, she's lost something, like a limb. She's frustrated she can't remember Charlie. And I'm not the only one who's noticed she's different. Reminds me of the Nick I got partnered with, when she first made Detective. Way before she met Charlie and he embraced all that she is." He chuckled softly; before Charlie there had been a revolving door of guys who discovered pretty quick they were intimidated by the fierce, quirky woman behind the pretty face.

"Well, that makes sense. She's had her memories of being a Grimm and of falling in love and being in love with Charlie taken from her," Rosalee said, stacking books securely inside an antique-looking cupboard. "The person we've all come to know and love, she doesn't remember being her. Everything she's learned as a Grimm has changed her."

"Falling in love with Charlie changed her," Hank said softly, with a sad smile. "I'm a cynic but I had hope for them. Such a fun couple – _genuine_ , you know? My stomach hurt from laughing any time they were together in a room with me."

"I know what you mean. She left the cop and the Grimm at the door when she went home to Charlie," Monroe said, sighing heavily. "Everything she does, as a cop, _and_ as a Grimm, he just…helped her escape from it for a little while. Just be herself."

"Everybody needs that," Hank said softly, shaking his head. He still couldn't believe Charlie was dead. Butchered, in his and Nicolette's home. That bright, vital guy, the other half of a double-act, cheerful, considerate and quirky like Nick herself, the surgeon-turned-super-vet who slept inside a cage with his canine patients post-surgery, treated the orphaned African pygmy hedgehog Phoebe as their baby, loved baseball and always gave Nick piggyback rides, had a cocktail or _Voodoo_ donuts ready for her when she got home, hid an engagement ring in a _Bananagrams_ tile-bag because that was _so_ Nick, proposing after a dinner of bao buns and beer watching _The Emperor's New Groove_ \- _gone_. And worst of all, Nick couldn't remember him. Couldn't remember being in love with him. He thought that was the worst part. Charlie had been all but entirely wiped away.

Just like Adam Schade's mother's identity as a Hexenbiest. The symmetry of Nicolette's punishment for destroying Catherine Schade wasn't lost on Hank. Nick had destroyed the woman Adam Schade loved most in the world; Adam Schade had erased the person Nick loved most.

"She remembers finding him. The assault… Doesn't know why he was in her house, though. Can't remember being in love with him… The photos, his things in her house, all their friends – she's confused as hell."

"It's not surprising she thinks she's got a screw loose," Monroe tutted softly.

"Is there anything in here that might help?"

"There are things in this trailer I've never seen before, and I grew up in my parents' apothecary shop," Rosalee said. "There are some herbal teas that aid in Alzheimer's and dementia cases, but –"

"Nick's a coffee-fiend," Hank smiled slightly.

"And I _finally_ got her off that Starbucks dark-roast bottom-of-the-beans-barrel gunge," Monroe said. "Baby steps. But – if it might help her memory, I don't think Nicolette would say no to afternoon tea."

"I'll take a look at Freddie's books and see what I can come up with," Rosalee said.

"You think Adam Schade's spell could've had any more side-effects?"

"More than a mystery coma and selective amnesia?"

"Without knowing the exact recipe of the Zaubertränke that was used on her, it'll be difficult to know the full repercussions of it," Rosalee sighed. "But, we're looking. I think the best thing we can all do for Lettie right now is just keep an eye on her. Keep each other in the loop about anything odd in her behaviour, any hint she drops about anything out of the ordinary."

"What about her saying she's seeing ghosts?" Hank asked. "Could that have something to do with the spell?"

"Well… Nicolette's a Grimm. They're still vulnerable to a Zauberbiest's spells, just like anyone else, but because she's a Grimm…her reaction to them might be a little unpredictable," Rosalee said thoughtfully. "It's reassuring Lettie's frustrated that she's forgotten something, it does seem indicative that her Grimm instincts are fighting Schade's Zaubertränke. This one seems to be more psychological, whereas Catherine's Zaubertränke that she used on you was intended to cause a deeply emotional response. We'll keep looking through the books at the Spice Shop either way."

"You and Monroe are still looking?"

"We're not gonna give up on Nicolette," Monroe said, and Rosalee smiled, nodding.

"What happens if her memory comes back?" Hank asked.

" _When_ it comes back."

"I guess…we just, you know…stand by her side while she goes through it all," Rosalee said softly. "I can't even imagine... To get Charlie back in one way, only to realise he's gone…"

"Let's just say whatever rock Adam Schade disappeared under, he better stay the hell there," Monroe growled.

"I feel awful," Hank sighed. "Adam Schade did this to her because of me."

"Hank, this isn't your fault. What Adam Schade did has everything to do with Nicolette being a Grimm," Rosalee said fairly. "Because Lettie killed the Hexenbiest part of Adam's mother."

"Which she did to save _my_ life," Hank sighed, shaking his head. Now that he knew what Nicolette used to remember, he realised why Nick had been so agitated by his relationship with Catherine Schade – and why he had been hit so strongly by his feelings for her. A witch's brew!

"You were a means to an end, dude," Monroe said, shaking his head, not sugar-coating it. "Catherine Schade tried to kill Nicolette's aunt, Marie, when she was in the hospital, back when Nicolette and I first met. Since Marie's dead, what Catherine did to you was totally about getting to Nicolette."

"So is it a family feud?"

"More like an interspecies war," Monroe said heavily. "Historically, Grimms committed indiscriminate slaughter – on Wesen. They were used as weapons by the seven Royal houses to keep us in line. Marie Kessler, she was one badass Grimm."

"We were raised on stories of Marie Kessler – and her sister, Kelly," Rosalee said, and Monroe shuddered. "Two sisters, two Grimms."

"Kelly?"

"Kelly Burkhardt," Rosalee said quietly.

"Nicolette's mom," Hank said softly, and Rosalee nodded.

"They're _legends_ ," Monroe said, with an excited grin. "All this stuff, I guess they inherited it from their ancestors. From other Grimms."

"This knowledge…it's precious," Rosalee said softly, gazing around the trailer. "I guess any Grimm would want to make sure it's preserved."

"So…how long has Nicolette known about all this?"

"Not long – you remember the kidnapping case when you guys arrested me?" Monroe said, glancing over, and Hank nodded slowly. "Nicolette's aunt had just arrived in town."

"I remember. First person Nick ever shot and killed," Hank said, staring at Mornoe.

"Good thing she's such a great shot. But that's her Grimm blood showing through," Monroe said, glancing at Rosalee, a small, proud smile lighting up his face. "Nicolette killed a Reaper before she even knew she was a Grimm."

"You're kidding? A Reaper, in Portland?"

"Uh-huh. Guy attacked Nicolette's aunt right outside of their house, Nicolette took him out," Monroe said, with an excited grin. "Guy should've realised he was dealing with two Grimms before attacking. Should've stalked his prey a little longer before attacking, you know?"

"Who would've ever thought there'd be two Grimms in the same city at the same time?" Rosalee said.

"How many Grimms are there?" Hank asked curiously.

"No-one knows. I'll bet there are people out there who are Grimms but don't know it. Grimms don't exactly have the greatest luck when it comes to life-expectancy," Monroe shrugged.

"Grimms are very rare," Rosalee said to Hank. They had been telling him what they could, coaxing and guiding him into the world of Wesen and Grimms – Nicolette's new world. From what he gathered, Grimms were some kind of super-warriors; Nicolette helped preserve the balance between nasty Wesen and the humans and innocent Wesen who couldn't fight back. Grimms had the rare ability to see what Wesen hid from the world; Nicolette saw the secrets of the world, and it was Monroe who had first help her decipher what they really meant.

Monroe had saved Hank's life when Stark escaped prison and targeted everyone associated with his murder-trial. If all of this was too complicated for him to believe, it was that fact that had gotten Hank to trust him, to trust that what Monroe was trying to tell him was real. That Nick was under a very real threat, and they had to look out for her.

"Especially ones like Nicolette."

"They're born, not made," Rosalee continued, with a small smile. "From our storybooks, a new Grimm comes into their potential when another Grimm in their family dies. One Grimm dies, another takes their place – it was always sort of a warning to Wesen; that we were never entirely safe, no matter how many Grimms were killed. There could always be another hiding under your bed, waiting to cut off your head while you slept."

"Yeah, and it's true – Nicolette only learned she was a Grimm when her aunt's cancer turned terminal," Monroe said. "I mean, Nicolette says she had nightmares and saw things ever since she was a little girl…but she had always chalked it up to the stress of losing her parents in a hideous car-accident. Even being a Grimm doesn't change the fact that sometimes our minds will make things up to explain away what we can't handle."

"Losing her parents so young, and on top of that seeing Wesen? I can't even imagine," Rosalee sighed, shaking her head.

Hank frowned. "Nick's been looking through recent reports… She told me she can't reconcile her notes…"

"Well, I'm not surprised. The Nicolette who wrote those notes knew she was a Grimm – and she'd be very careful about making any notes, especially on official documents, that implicate anything Wesen-related, anything she couldn't explain to a Kehrseite – a human," Rosalee said. "The Grimm Nicolette would understand what she wrote, but as Lettie can't remember being her…"

"She's getting real agitated about it – about what she can't remember. Her notes not making sense. Trying to reconcile how she solved cases based on the evidence," Hank frowned. "She's a tenacious detective, she always has been."

"That might be something in her favour. Her Grimm nature, her intuition and skills as a detective," Rosalee said thoughtfully. "The 'ghosts' she's been seeing, if they are her memories fighting back, there's a chance eventually she'll remember… I can't imagine what she's going through."

"So…we get her on some tea from the Spice Shop, and we just hope she'll come to us if she starts seeing weird Wesen stuff?" Monroe said softly.

"I guess that's all we can do," Hank sighed.

"So why're we moving the trailer? If Nick starts getting her memory back and tries to find it – won't it being gone make it seem like she's imagining everything?" Hank asked.

"It's too big a risk to just leave it where anyone can find it," Rosalee said fairly.

"And Nicolette would want to make sure this stuff is protected," Monroe said. "There's a tonne of stuff in here even I've never heard of, stuff Rosalee couldn't even stock at the Spice Shop. It's too valuable."

"If the wrong Wesen got their hands on this… It's a how-to guide in exterminating Wesen – _literally_ ," Rosalee said seriously. "We trust Lettie with this knowledge because she does _good_ with it; but other people aren't so trustworthy. And we just have to hope Nicolette appreciates us being pragmatic about the trailer."

"Yeah, since technically she didn't actually give me permission to show it to either of you," Monroe murmured, frowning at the faded gilt script stamped onto the spine of a cracked leather book.

"She'll know you've just been doing whatever you can to help her," Rosalee smiled fondly at Monroe. "We need her to remember who she is as quickly as possible – Portland has become accustomed to having a Grimm around; if people start to realise Lettie can't remember…"

"It's not just Portland scumbags we have to worry about. After sending those two severed Hässlich heads to Europe, let's hope the Reapers don't take her up on her offer to send their best," Monroe shuddered. He and Rosalee shared a grim look; Hank stared at Monroe, his jaw slack. Monroe saw his face and grimaced guiltily. "Oh… I guess I should probably explain… Uh, it was self-defence. And _technically_ Nicolette only killed the one Reaper – the other decapitated his partner when he was trying to kill Nicolette with a ceremonial antique scythe…so…"

"Just what in the hell else don't I know about Nick?"

Monroe paused, thinking hard. "She's afraid of jellyfish."

Rosalee laughed in surprise, glancing up from the vials and bottles with an incredulous grin on her face. " _What_?!"

* * *

 **A.N.** : So, a glimpse into how things are different in this version of events. We'll only meet Nicolette's boyfriend through flashbacks, her memories returning – this story starts around the end of season one, the beginning of season two, only a little more disjointed, and it's Nicolette who was scratched by the cat – a cat her vet boyfriend brought home.


	2. A Habit

**A.N.** : I just noticed that in the season one finale when Sean Renard is attacked in his own apartment, there are photographs of him with a young girl on the walls, and he wears a wedding-ring. But where are his wife and the little girl? I'm very curious whether they have something to do with his working with the Laufer. They say the ring is something to do with 'being a royal' but I think that's rubbish.

There's nothing to break through writer's block like a bad day at work.

I may also give Meisner a different name, because Martin is my _dad's_ name! I'm leaning towards _Conrad_. It has a more modern Germanic feel, and the name wouldn't be out of place in Portland.

* * *

 **Fantastic Beasts and How to Fight Them**

* * *

"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day." – Meg, _Hercules_

* * *

 _01_

 _A Habit_

* * *

With a shuddering gasp, she wrenched herself from her nightmares, dripping in sweat, her heart hammering in her ears, the taste of copper on her tongue and a physical exhaustion draining what little energy she had, the lingering terror of sleep-paralysis affecting her more than her nightmares. Her mind had literally locked her within a harrowing vision of false faces and decapitations, her overactive imagination turning her aunt's death by cancer into something even more macabre and confusing. Flickering-faced assassins trying to poison her, knife-wielding priests attacking in the ICU. Her mind, yet again, trying to create a reason why she had lost someone else so important to her, for no reason. A car-accident; cancer – they were both faceless monsters she couldn't reconcile to her devastating loss.

Shuddering, panting for breath, she groaned, her head falling into her hands, sweat cooling on her skin, as her blood raced through her veins. She hadn't had nightmares like this in years – since her parents died in the crash.

The silence in her house pressed on her, the darkness of her bedroom fading as her eyes adjusted, everything illuminated in silvered navy by the half-moon glowing brightly outside. It had been a night like this that Aunt Marie had reappeared, without notice; bright, cold and calm.

She sat slumped in her bed, the covers twisted and sweaty, her hands shaking as her body's natural instincts overpowered sense, her mind struggling to grasp the difference between dreams and consciousness, her exhaustion blurring the two together inextricably. She was becoming more and more terrified that she was stuck in some sort of limbo – if she was _still_ actually in that coma.

Over the last week or so she had come to wonder whether her dreams weren't the reality – whether this half-world she was living in, sleepless nearly to the point of insomnia because of those nightmares, wandering around with the constant itch of annoyance that she had forgotten something very important, was the dream. Nothing made sense.

She reached over blindly for the glass of water on her nightstand, downing it in three gulps, and tried to settle back to sleep. Even changing the sweaty sheets didn't help; and showering the sweat away only increased her wakefulness, cooling her blood, but only intensifying the feeling of her nerves, frayed to their limit.

Freshly showered, in new pyjamas and clean sheets, she settled back in the dark, and tried to empty her mind, to _rest_.

An hour later, she huffed, lurched out of bed, packed her gym gear, fed the menagerie of animals in her house and left before the dawn. The sun had just started to glimmer flirtatiously with the enamelled clouds as she ambled into her quiet gym, and she worked out some of her frustration for a good hour before showering and taking the time in the mirror to dress herself before heading to the Precinct. She blow-dried her hair and pulled it back into a Dutch braid down her back, moisturised her face, added a flick of mascara to her lashes and tidied her brows – she was low-maintenance; her lifestyle demanded it. In exceptional circumstances, she made more effort than a movie-star on the red-carpet, but those times were few and far between – again, because of her chosen vocation. And today was not one of those days. She grimaced at the dark circles under her eyes, dug a colour-correcting concealer out of the bottom of her purse and sighed at her reflection after patting the crème under her eyes and setting it with the powder.

Until she figured out what the hell was going on with her brain, this would have to do. As long as she wasn't mistaken for a perp, people would just have to deal with it. They'd seen her with half her face bruised to twice its normal size from Stark's assault; exhaustion wasn't going to shock the hell out of them.

She stopped to buy herself a breakfast burrito and a strong coffee from a nearby hole-in-the-wall and made her way into work. The thing about working at the Precinct was there was never any downtime, just because she was in hours earlier than she needed to be didn't mean she was coming in to an empty office. A lot of the others she had been a beat-cop with had just finished their shifts; shift-changes were the busiest times of any day. She said hello to the Desk Sergeant and made her way through to the office, settling down at her desk with a groan. She unpeeled her burrito, sipped her coffee, and pulled a pile of manila folders toward her.

"You're in unusually early, even for you," a voice said, long after her burrito had been demolished, and Nicolette's lips parted in surprise at the stutter of her heart at the sound of it. _That's new_ , she thought, turning to face the Captain.

"Well, home's not exactly a safe landing-place right now," she said softly. No-one could blame her for not wanting to stay in the house where she'd been attacked, twice, and where she'd found a dead body – her murdered fiancé, according to everyone she knew. Truth of the matter was, the house was confusing; but as frustrating as the photographs were, they were not nearly as mind-bending as her files. Her reports and notes, so meticulously maintained, didn't make sense to her – as if she was missing something instinctive, something she knew that was too important to put to paper but explained the holes in her logic. Everything made sense on the file; but her mind nagged at her, as if annoyed at herself, like she should know something but couldn't remember it.

"You feel unsafe at home?" Captain Renard asked, frowning, his eyes flashing with urgency. "Have you received some new threat? Kimura had ties to a lot of dangerous people, I'd hate to think anyone is coming after you for his death."

"No, it's not that," Nicolette assured him, with a sigh. Ever since she had joined the South Precinct in uniform, fresh out of the Academy, she had been aware of the Captain. Calm, supportive, approachable, politically-minded but a team-player, and _very_ attractive. It wasn't hard to notice the slim gold band on his finger, or that he never spoke about his wife. She had always been curious – but he was her Captain. She could appreciate the eye-candy in a profession that by its nature was very grim, but he was just that; eye-candy. Look, never touch.

Too complicated.

And he wasn't her type anyway; too serious. She was a cop; she needed _delight_ when she took off her badge at the end of every day – or the dark hours of the early-morning, as it more often than not turned out to be.

"The photos and everything in the house, they're just confusing, that's all," Nicolette said, shrugging awkwardly. Everyone here had a better idea of what her relationship to a murdered man was. Hank kept wincing at her, as if half-expecting her to remember, and break.

Cop; gun; psychotic break: Not a winning combination. It wasn't his fault he was wary.

"Hank tells me you've experienced problems…with your memory," Renard prompted gently, perching on the edge of her desk. She looked up sharply, anxiety rippling through her, clutching her throat and squeezing her stomach like a vice.

"I've been cleared for active duty," she said, and a little smile appeared, warming the Captain's features. Sat this close, she could smell his understated cologne – he always smelled good – again, another of the perks of her job. One of the very few.

The Captain smiled, "That's not what I asked."

Nicolette stared at him, weighing her options, and ducked her head. "I…can't remember Charlie."

"Your fiancé?"

"That's what everybody says," Nicolette grumbled in frustration. "There are photos all over my house, a guy's stuff everywhere – I have _no_ memory of being with anyone the last three years, let alone _living_ with him."

"You weren't in a coma very long – how is it that you've amnesia about a specific person?" Renard murmured, as if speaking to himself.

"I don't know – but it's really starting to piss me off," she blurted, then flushed and glanced at the Captain, her superior officer. "Sorry."

"There's no need to apologise," Renard said, with a little smile. "We both know worse has been said in this room in frustration."

"Yeah," Nicolette nodded. She hadn't been raised cussing her mouth off – she had rarely heard Marie curse, and her view was that with the thousands of words in the English language, there was always something that could verbalise her feelings. But, no, now she was frustrated as heck – she was tense, anxious, annoyed, frustrated, reaching her limit – and it was her own fault! Her brain had rewired itself while she languished in a coma.

Renard sighed, glancing around the office. "Perhaps this isn't the right place to have this conversation. Let me put my things away, we'll go and get a cup of coffee. I hear you like coffee, Nicolette."

"Only with my oxygen," Nicolette smiled, sighed, and packed up her files, tidying the folders into a neat file, and placing her forget-me-not paperweight on top of the loose papers. She had always been diligent about maintaining a tidy desk – she hated not being able to find what she needed. She laughed without humour, her fingertips brushing the cool glass of the paperweight. "Forget-me-nots. How ironic." The Captain gave her a sombre smile, left his briefcase and overcoat in his office, and they made their way out of the precinct.

"Do you have a favourite coffee-shop nearby?" Renard suggested, and Nicolette beamed, checking her watch.

"I've been weaned off Starbucks," Nicolette warned, "so, I hope you don't mind the _Sunflower_. If we head there now, they'll be pulling a fresh batch of berry fritters from the fryer." She beamed, and Renard smiled.

"You know the baker's schedule?"

"If I call ahead, Margo will set some kouign amann aside for me," she smiled.

"Friends in the right places," Renard said softly, and Nicolette nodded. They made their way out of the building, fighting through the tide of the incoming shift-change, letting the early-morning mist caress them as they left the building down the broad steps. Nicolette glanced at the Captain; it was strange to walk down the street with him so casually. She was used to Hank's stilted swagger, not the Captain's easy, confident strides, and she was acutely aware that it was the Captain walking beside her. Aside from court trials, annual inter-precinct softball games and awards ceremonies, there were very few times Nicolette ever saw Captain Renard in a social context.

It was strange that she was at once comfortable in his presence, and hyperaware of him.

She wondered about the implications of taking him to a café, when they so rarely interacted outside of the Precinct. The tiny bakery was one of her favourites, and always a treat. She had met Monroe here more times than she could count; he had a deep passion for small-batch coffee, loose-leaf tea and decadent hot chocolate, vegan pastries and cosy ambiance. _Sunflower Bakery_ was a hidden jewel, but with his doorframe-wrecking shoulders and sharp, custom-tailored suit Renard looked almost comically out of place beside the yellow gingham tablecloths and the buttery parrot-tulips. She bounced up to the counter, beaming.

Margo frowned, placing the 'Right to Refuse Service' sign on the counter. "No."

Nicolette's lips popped open in horror. "Margo! Come on, you're the _only_ one who gives it to me the way I like it."

" _You_ said you were cutting back."

"I lapsed. Margo, I _need_ it."

"You have problems, you know that? You're probably gonna die at thirty-five of a heart-attack, brought on by an excess of caffeine."

"Oh, don't fret, Margo, it encourages wrinkles – besides, a bullet might take me out before then," Nicolette teased cheerfully. "Being a cop's not just about the coffee and donuts, you know."

"I heard that rumour," Margo sighed, shaking her head, but she pulled a coffee-cup from behind the counter. "But I'm only giving you a double-shot."

"Just make it dark and strong," Nicolette hummed, hiding a blush as her mind went to somewhere it had never gone to before. The flip-flop of her stomach had nothing to do with the three cups of coffee she had already had this morning, and everything to do with remembering Captain Renard's proximity to her. The understated scent of his cologne whispered to her, teasing her nose, making her want to sigh and inhale deeply, savour it.

"What'll you have?" Margo asked, smiling at the Captain.

"Is that _Sachertorte_?" Renard asked, eyeing the contents of the glass-fronted cabinet. He said the name with a slight accent – like when Monroe slipped into German, engrossed in telling her stories about his clockmaker ancestors.

"Made fresh this morning," Margo smiled. "It's one of my new ones. And to drink?"

"An espresso, please, and a glass of water," Renard said softly, still eyeing the cake fondly.

"Nick?"

"Oh, I don't know – you realise I don't put half as much thought into what underwear to put on as I do in choosing one of your pastries," Nicolette said, again forgetting herself in front of the Captain. She blushed a little, cleared her throat, but became enthralled by the offerings of butter and sugar and cream. The almond croissant, a simple palmier, a decadent Portuguese custard-tart…

"A kouign amann, please," she grinned. "And a Portuguese tart – for later."

"I'll warm the kouign amann for you. Go choose a table, I'll bring it all over," Margo said, raising an eyebrow at Nicolette pointedly when the Captain thanked her and took a small table in the corner. She swallowed, eyed the cabinet and paused, smiling, as Renard pulled the chair out for her.

"Thank you," she said, surprised, touched by the gentlemanly gesture. She sat, watching his movements as he sat opposite her; she would call it _prowling_. Slow, measured, subtly predatory – a big-cat stalking his prey. Odd, though, that she was reminded of a cat, as _renard_ was French for 'fox'.

"You come here often," Renard said softly.

"Margo does great vegan stuffed pitas," Nicolette smiled. "I can't eat pizza and burgers all the time."

"It must be a refreshing escape, sometimes," Renard said, sat so casually with his long legs spread out under the little table, observing her with his head slightly tilted to the side, fiddling with a packet of sweetener.

Nicolette nodded. "So…what didn't you want to talk about at the Precinct?"

Renard shrugged slightly. "I just…thought you might feel more comfortable talking away from the Precinct, as you're so anxious about work. Have there been any other side-effects? Besides this curious amnesia?"

"Not that I'm aware of – but given the amnesia, I'm…mot really trusting my own mind right now," Nicolette admitted. She didn't tell him that that terrified her more than anything else. Margo appeared, bearing freshly-ground coffees and two plates, her Portuguese tart already tucked inside a little brown-paper bag.

Nicolette took a gulp of her coffee, groaning.

"Junkie," Margo tutted at her.

" _Goddess_ ," Nicolette retorted. They both thanked Margo, and she headed back to the counter.

"You've always relied on your instincts as much as your intelligence," Renard said, fiddling with the dainty handle of his espresso cup, bringing them back to the subject of their conversation. "What does your gut tell you?"

"Usually that I've had too much coffee," Nicolette joked, inhaling the scent of the medium-roast Ecuadorian coffee, and the Captain's lips twitched as he looked over the rim of his cup, amused. She sighed heavily, admitting what she somehow couldn't bring herself to say to Monroe or Hank: "Something's missing. Something – _huge_. I know it is, I can feel it, like a ghost limb. Only, I have no idea what it is – that's why I've been in so early; I'm worried that whatever I'm missing has something to do with my cases. I'm terrified one of the trials will be thrown out because I'm called to testify and I can't remember!"

"Nicolette, you're a talented detective; you've closed more cases than anyone in the Precinct recently," Renard reassured her gently. He frowned. "Did you find anything unfamiliar in your reports?"

"No – I remember all of the details I'll be called to testify on," Nicolette said, "I just feel like I'm missing the bigger picture."

"What bigger picture?"

"If I knew that, I wouldn't have so many sleepless nights," Nicolette smiled wryly. "Maybe it has more to do with the home-invasion than the coma, but…my mind's playing tricks on me."

"How so?"

"Just…seeing things. Impossible things. I've been having nightmares…only I don't know that I'm really awake…even now. Sleep paralysis when I wake from nightmares," Nicolette said softly. The sleep-paralysis was the most terrifying part of it all. She hadn't told her friends about that, and she licked her lips, fidgeting with her napkin, wondering why she felt so comfortable telling the Captain, second-guessing whether it was in her best interests to confess this sort of thing to her superior officer, if she wanted to keep her position.

"What kind of things are you seeing?"

Nicolette didn't answer right away. She licked her lips, gazing at the Captain, a squirming sensation in her stomach, which felt oddly empty as her mind went back to the night she was attacked in her home by Kimura – had killed Kimura in self-defence… She had seen the impossible; that face haunted her coma, haunted her dreams now.

She had seen her mother – or a warped version of her that made no sense.

"Monsters," Nicolette laughed without humour, trying to keep a smile on her face. "The same thing happened when my parents died. I wasn't prepared for it; I suppose I wanted there to be a reason behind their deaths, not just…a _terrible_ accident."

"Your parents died?"

"When I was twelve," Nicolette nodded.

"That's far too young to lose your family," Renard sighed, shaking his head.

"Tell me about it."

"Who raised you, after they were gone?"

"My mother's sister."

"She must've been quite a woman," Renard smiled, his eyes sweeping over her face, and Nicolette flushed with pride, smiling behind her coffee-cup, at the indirect compliment.

"To get me through adolescence, on top of all that – she was a force to be reckoned with," Nicolette sighed. "I was hard to deal with, though. This Nicolette, she wasn't always the case."

"And now it comes out; your rebellious youth," Renard chuckled.

"In all its glory. What about you? What was your family like?" Nicolette asked gently, more curious than she remembered ever being about the Captain.

"Well, after I turned fifteen, it was just my mother and me," Renard sighed. "Before that, though, I lived in Vienna, attended a Swiss boarding-school with my cousins. With my half-brother."

"Vienna. The home of Sachertorte and Schubert," Nicolette smiled. "My parent's record-collection spanned the Sixties and Seventies, but they had one particular CD I'll always remember – the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra's New Year's Concert."

"My mother attended the _Neujahrskonzert_ annually for a decade," Renard beamed. "The Radetzky March was always my favourite."

"I'd hope so – written for the battlefield," Nicolette smiled. "For soldiers. How did you go from a Swiss boarding-school to becoming a Portland police-chief?"

"Family politics."

"Sounds Shakespearean," Nicolette observed, raising an eyebrow at his tone. Renard chuckled.

"Hopefully you'll never meet them; if you have that misfortune, just remember Machiavelli," Renard warned with a wry smile.

"I never managed _The Prince_ ," Nicolette said. "I spent a good chunk of my junior-year in high-school working through _Don Quixote_. My aunt made me read it in Spanish. I finished it, and had to read it again; I was mesmerised."

"A delusional man, driven by his singular mission to civilise," Renard said thoughtfully, setting his espresso cup down. "It says a lot about you that you admire that literature."

"What about you, was there any single piece of literature that shaped your character?"

"Not one particular piece, but the Enlightenment writers – and Dickens."

"I could read him all day," Nicolette smiled. "Did you always want to work with the police?"

"No; I thought I was going to be a doctor," Renard said.

"In a way, you still heal what's broken, eradicate disease," she said thoughtfully, trying to imagine the Captain as a doctor. "You suit the badge, though. Portland P.D. is lucky to have a captain like you."

"Thank you," Renard smiled hesitantly, then sighed, shaking his head. "You know, all the awards I've received over the years don't really amount to anything; but to hear that I'm…valued by the men under my command… Our jobs are hard enough; it's buoying to hear that sometimes."

"Sometimes one good thing can make up for a lot of bad," Nicolette said distractedly. "Not all of it; but enough that it's bearable. That's…something my aunt used to say, after my parents died; they were gone – but she got me."

"It's a very great shame you didn't have more time with her."

"I had eighteen years. She guided me through my formative years… She was wise. I didn't always listen," Nicolette admitted, with a twinkling smile, remembering all her many teenaged transgressions. She was a little hellion. But a good-hearted one, she hoped. There was never _not_ a smile on her face, and for as much trouble as she had caused, usually she had been trying to make other people happier. Renard chuckled.

"Well, here you are, so you had to have listened to something," Renard said. "Was becoming a detective always your ambition?"

"Not at all," Nicolette laughed, blushing a little. "I wanted to be an illustrator for Disney." The Captain's eyebrows rose in surprise.

"That is _not_ what I was expecting at all," he chuckled, and his smile was easy, unaffected – charming.

"I know. I was a triple-varsity athlete in high-school; I excelled in science and math, and all I wanted to do was chase boys and doodle," Nicolette smiled nostalgically. "Then Disney merged with Pixar and my dreams were crushed."

"So you threw it all in to become a cop."

"I wanted to make a difference," Nicolette shrugged. "I knew I needed something that would really engage me. And every day is different; I'm never bored."

"Well, we're very lucky to have a detective of your calibre," Renard said, and Nicolette warmed with pride. "Diligent, unflappable, approachable, compassionate – I wish more in the Department had your professionalism." He didn't name names, but everyone in the Precinct knew a good cop from a lazy one; and Renard wasn't friendly with everyone. He'd had to bring up other cops for their conduct, make redundancies based on performance and behaviour. It wasn't in Nicolette to bitch and be catty, petty, gossip. She was too busy; and she had never liked the Mean Girl mentality of office bullies. High-school was a long time ago; but she wasn't oblivious. She knew who carried a great deal of the weight in the Precinct.

"I appreciate that."

"I mean it," Renard said softly, gently placing his huge hand over her own, his expression sincere. "Please don't worry about your work, or your place in the Precinct. What happened to you was not your fault; and you're too good a detective to lose." He rubbed his thumb against the tender inside of her wrist, making her hyperaware of the warmth of his skin, the scent of his cologne, how they had started leaning toward each other over their little table, lulled and relaxed by the scent of coffee and freshly-baked cakes still untouched on their plates.

It was the first time she had ever been distracted from a pastry.

Nicolette smiled shyly, blushing, and jumped when her phone rang. She cleared her throat awkwardly, feeling like she had been caught doing something she shouldn't, and answered. "Burkhardt. Hey, Hank – No, I'm at Sunflower Bakery. We've got one? Okay, I'll meet you back at the Precinct. I'll get your usual… See you in ten." She hung up, sighed, and smiled apologetically at the Captain. "The sweet song of Homicide calls me."

"We'd better go," Renard said, looking almost put out, and started when his own phone rang. Nicolette wrapped up her still-warm kouign amann in a napkin and settled the cheque with Margo while he was distracted – he seemed like the type to insist on paying out of old-fashioned chivalry, but he had never treated her differently as a detective because she was a young woman. She bought Hank's favourite and a coffee for him, and glanced back at the Captain as he finished his phone-call.

"They want me on-scene too," he said, giving her an annoyed look. "You shouldn't have paid; this was my suggestion."

"I got two stamps on my loyalty-card," she shrugged, smiling. "How was the Sachertorte?"

"As good as any I had in Vienna. It really took me back to my childhood," Renard smiled sadly. "The better memories at least."

Nicolette noticed the little sign and a silver platter offering still-steaming samples. The Captain raised his eyebrows as she stole a piece, chewing thoughtfully, and grinned as she stole another, licking the syrup from her fingertips. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"When the Schnecken beckons!" Nicolette shrugged, and danced out of the café. They strode toward the Precinct, meeting Hank out by the steps.

"I'll meet you at the scene," the Captain said, answering another phone-call. Nicolette grinned as she handed Hank his coffee and a fresh chocolate éclair.

"Wu's already there; says it's a bad one," Hank said, grumbling as she stole the car-keys from his jacket-pocket. She slipped into the driver's seat, adjusting the mirrors, and her gaze lingered on the Captain, deep in serious conversation with someone. Poor guy; he spent half his time on the phone. She didn't envy the politics side of his job. But then, he did it very well.

"How long've we been partners?" Hank asked lightly, climbing into the car. Nicolette tore her eyes from the Captain, trying not to linger on thoughts of his broad shoulders and large, clever hands. She remembered how warm they were; her skin tingled where his thumb had caressed her wrist, and she fidgeted in her seat, wondering where else he'd make fizzle with electricity.

"Hm. Too long," Nicolette smiled. "Why?"

"I think it's time we lay some things out on the table."

"Oh God. Couple's therapy?! Okay, tell me the worst."

"You always driving; that's a problem for me."

"It's the twenty-first century, Hank," Nicolette said. "Adapt or die."

"I feel like a house-husband," Hank grumbled.

"Well, we have been partners longer than some of your marriages have lasted," Nicolette mused. "Maybe I've domesticated you without you realising it."

"Maybe; no denying this is the most dedicated relationship I've ever had in my life," Hank said, and Nicolette laughed. They did spend more time with other than anyone else; they had to trust each other, put their lives in the other's hands; rely on each other for support. It was a relationship; and it worked. Nicolette was very lucky with her partner, her mentor.

"Well, my hubbie, finish your brunch; we've got work to do."

* * *

 **A.N.** : The sign of a good person is someone who can appreciate a simple pastry, in my opinion. And speaking of opinions, I'd like yours – Meisner: Wesen or Grimm in this story? Because he needs to be something. I'm leaning toward _Grimm_ , he's just found a way to hide it from Wesen (like Nick's sunglasses).

Oh, and just so everyone is aware, I'm deviating from canon as regards seasons five and six; I haven't watched all of it yet but I don't like this whole Black Claw thing – we already have the Royals, the Wesen Council and the Laufer; there is more than enough to drive the plot without creating a bigger, badder, faceless evil organisation I don't care about that supposedly supersedes the impending crises of Laufer/Royal clashes. Even introducing a bad Grimm would have been interesting, or Nick facing trouble at the Precinct when Wesen try to get to him by working the system against him, discrediting him as a detective.


	3. A Fresh Case

**A.N.** : By their behaviour in the previous chapter, hopefully you've picked up that Renard went through the purification ritual to kiss Nicolette awake from her Zaubertränke coma, so things are gonna get _messy_ from here. And, if I do say so myself, what I've got coming up is rather clever! It takes the themes of what happens in canon and makes them applicable to a female Nick.

So, this case was inspired by _Criminal Minds_ , and there will be repercussions that I'm tying into the story later on. I didn't want to go straight into the Mauvais-Dentes and Kelly too quickly, mostly because Nicolette and Renard need some time to stew in their obsession! For a little while, because Nicolette can't remember she's a Grimm, the story will be sans-Wesen.

* * *

 **Fantastic Beasts and How to Fight Them**

 _02_

 _A Fresh Case_

* * *

He glanced at Nicolette as she drove them out of the city, observing her, and wondering why she had been at a café with the Captain. Ever since waking from the coma, Nicolette had been different – more the Nicolette he remembered first meeting, young but wise, charismatic and fun but dedicated and deeply professional when it came to doing their job. When the badge came off, Nick was a different woman; _fun_. Quirky, hilarious and sweet – she adored movies, junk-food, flirting and anything artistic, _Banangrams_ , cocktails and lazy afternoons doing gardening in her pyjamas and glitter gumboots. The job had a way of changing them, weighing on them; everything they saw, they couldn't help but carry some of it around with them, especially the gruesome stuff.

To him, she seemed… _lighter_.

Without remembering who Charlie was, she had had her grief stolen from her. She was a little more wary, on account of Kimura's assault on her in her own home, but it was as if she had never met Charlie; the person she had become while with him all these years…she had forgotten her. She was dealing with her memory-loss and whatever else she hadn't told anyone about the symptoms of waking from her coma; but she also didn't have to handle her grief, or the stress of being a Grimm. Monroe had told Hank just how much time Nicolette had put into their cases, not wearing her badge. She had spent hours, nights, in her aunt's trailer, researching the unexplainable.

Without remembering Charlie, or that she was a Grimm, Hank guessed she had a lot more time on her hands. And that affected her, too. She seemed happier, more care-free than he remembered her being in a while – more like the young, motivated beat-cop who had just passed her exams and been paired with him as a newbie detective. Tireless, cheerful and intuitive. She hadn't earned the nickname Sunny for no reason – she was a ray of sunshine in the office, always cheery and helpful; and she was the most kind-hearted and generous person Hank knew. She always had time for anyone, and she noticed things other people wouldn't. Sometimes he thought she spread herself too thin, being so unselfish. But it was part of Nicolette's nature that she liked knowing people could come to her for anything.

Behaviourally, she was different, and even the way she dressed had changed. More colour had come back into her wardrobe, she wore a little jewellery, did something with her hair more than tugging it into a ponytail. Because she had the time. She wasn't running around fighting Wesen; she didn't have to worry about unexplainable bloodstains on her clothes, or leaving jewellery behind as evidence, getting hurt when earrings were ripped out, or the risk of rings getting caught. She always looked smart – professional, and intimidating because of her natural prettiness – but now she looked like she was making the effort to look especially nice.

She chattered away happily, and Hank just watched her, thinking to himself that…much as he regretted what had been taken from her, maybe it was better for her not to be a Grimm. Not good for the Wesen that Monroe said she had helped, but for Nicolette herself – she seemed much healthier. Maybe it was better she didn't remember that she had lost Charlie; if she ever remembered him, it would devastate her.

Nicolette's chatter about her mini Dachshund's antics with Phoebe the hedgehog stopped as they reached the scene. It always did; the moment they needed to be Detectives Griffin and Burkhardt, the goofy, sexy, loveable marshmallow Nicolette was filed away – Nick joked that she folded her up and tucked her into her bra. Nick the tough but compassionate cop came out, solemn and diligent, professional, always ready to work.

"What've we got?" Hank asked, as Wu met them, climbing out of the car, and Hank suddenly remembered – this was Nicolette's first new case since waking from the coma.

"One victim. Female, early twenties, her body was dumped in a ditch at the side of the road," Wu sighed, shaking his head. "Local rancher saw her, says the body was still warm when he pulled over. He's pretty shaken up."

"Any I.D.?"

"Haven't run prints yet, we were just cleared to move her when you arrived, but there's…well, you'll see… There's nothing on her to ID her," Wu said, and they followed the Sergeant to the cluster of people working to collect evidence and photograph the scene. They ducked under the tape, pulling on gloves.

"Poor girl," Hank sighed, shaking his head. Someone had dumped a young woman at the side of the road, naked but for the tarp she had been wrapped in.

"Oh, darling, what happened to you?" Nicolette sighed, squatting down by the body. The girl couldn't have been long out of her teens, naturally blonde, and despite death, she was still very pretty. Ligature marks around her throat showed the cause of death would most likely be strangulation – the marks on her wrists suggested she had been restrained. "This how she was found?"

"Guy who found her said he had to turn her over, tried to give her CPR when he felt she was still warm," Wu said.

"No attempt whatsoever to hide her. She was dumped here like trash," Nicolette sighed, shaking her head, and carefully lifted the tarp. Hank had been working with her so long, he knew a lot of her looks, went with her gut instincts. Even before this Grimm stuff started, according to Monroe nearly a year ago, she had had an extraordinary intuition about people. He watched her frown at the girl's body, reach under the tarp.

"What're you seeing?" Hank asked.

"I think I recognise her, maybe," Nicolette said softly. "And I think she's post-partum."

"She was pregnant?"

"So where's her baby?" Hank asked quietly, squatting down beside Nicolette, sadly observing the dead girl. He glanced at Nick, observing more in her face than from the dead body.

"Shoot," Nick swore softly, shaking her head. "Mary-Elizabeth Cassel."

"You know her?"

"No – not her. A few years ago, one of my first cases, a dead body turned up in a dumpster in an abandoned industrial estate," Nick said. "Her name was Mary-Elizabeth Cassel, she was a runaway, had been missing for years, she showed up with these same ligature marks on her wrists. She had been raped often. And she was asphyxiated with a chain. I'll never forget her."

There were cases that stuck with all of them, for different reasons – he had more than his fair share of ghosts – and there came a time where the job finally caught up with them. Usually it was within a few months, that one specific case that determined whether they were able to continue.

"So we've got ourselves a serial-killer," Hank said quietly.

"We've got ourselves a name," Wu said, pulling up his laptop to show them the results of taking the victim's fingerprint. "Candice Goldman, reported missing by her aunt three years ago. A runaway. She has a record, all drug-related arrests."

"That's the same as Mary-Elizabeth Cassel," Nick said, frowning at the screen. Her bold eyebrows drew together, staring at Candice Goldman's last arrest photo. Bruised and bleeding, almost emaciated, her hair a tangled mess. "So this is Candice Goldman?" She turned back to the body, then frowned again at the photo on Wu's screen. "You wouldn't even think they were the same girl."

"Someone got her cleaned up," Hank said. He caught Nick's eye. "We've got work to do." Nick nodded in agreement, and they departed the scene for the Precinct, Nick handing over the keys so she could make calls, asking for old reports to be brought out of storage.

They had all made a pact to keep an eye on Nick, both her emotional state and keeping aware of their surroundings to make sure there would be no physical threats from vengeful Wesen. Hank couldn't see the Wesen, but he was becoming attuned to Nick's facial expressions, the slight widening of her eyes and leeching of colour from her cheeks whenever she saw an unintentional _woge_ in front of her; she would swallow, and look away, looking startled but resolute. Today was different, though; they spent all day at the Precinct, pulling out old files, brainstorming every possible angle they could take on this case.

Candice Goldman's aunt had to be informed of her niece's death. That was always one of the worst parts of the job. But three years later, Miss Goldman, calm and kind, in her mid-thirties, had become resigned to the fact her niece would probably end up dead somewhere.

He could see it on her face when she saw two Police detectives stood on her front-porch. People knew. They always knew. They saw two sombre faces and badges, and they knew; they were the harbingers of bad tidings. Eloisa Goldman lived in a small, pretty house with geraniums in the window-boxes in a quiet neighbourhood with a great park. Not the kind of place where teenage girls went missing from. But they had looked into Candice Goldman's file; her mother had died of an overdose three months after Candice was reported missing by her aunt. Her mother had the same history of drug-related arrests as Candice, but Eloisa Goldman was clean. Literally.

She invited them into her home, and Hank noticed the study looked more like a workshop. "I'm a jewellery designer. This is my home-studio, too. I have a workshop downtown; I sell to boutiques across Oregon and northern California. Candice doodled some of my early designs. She used to help me, I always hoped…she'd come home and join me."

"We're so sorry this happened to Candice," Nick said gently, as Eloisa covered her mouth with her hand, turning away, as tears glittered down her cheeks.

"She was a sweet girl, you know. When she was little she _always_ had a smile on her face. It's just…my _sister_. She had a habit, ever since we were teenagers. She fell in with the wrong kids in high-school – dragged some of her friends in, too. Candice never really had a chance. I tried… Usually she'd run to me when things got bad with her mom. She was a good girl. It got to her, though… One afternoon I found her with my sister, both high as kites." She shook her head, tears dripping down her cheeks. "When Candice disappeared...I thought, this is it. This is the last time I'm ever gonna see her. I thought, she'll die of an overdose somewhere, and I'll never… But she was _murdered_?"

"We've just begun our investigation," Hank said softly, noticing the stark look flicker across Nick's face, staring at Eloisa. He thought, _Wesen_ , taking a second look at Eloisa, but he couldn't see anything different. He would never have known there was anything more to see, if not for Nick. "But, yes, Candice was murdered."

"We…think there are links between Candice's murder and the abduction and death of another girl three years ago," Nick said, watching Miss Goldman with a slightly awed wariness. "We're hopeful Candice will lead us to who did this to them."

"Uh… When – when can I come get Candice?" Eloisa asked, wiping her face.

"Candice is still with the M.E. right now, but as soon as she's released the Precinct will contact you," Hank said.

"We'll keep you informed on our investigation," Nick said. "Again, we're very sorry this happened to your niece." Eloisa nodded, gasping and wiping her face with a Kleenex, and Nick cleared away the coffee-cups. She had always been like that; attentive, helpful, kind. But she had that look on her face, the subtle bomb-blast – she had seen someone _woge_ , and her memory was working against her. She didn't know what it meant.

And Hank couldn't see the _woge_ to find out whether the girl was Wesen, and whether her being Wesen had anything to do with her abduction.

They were in a frustrating position. Hank knew but couldn't see; Nick saw, but didn't understand.

And until she did, they would just have to continue on as if Nick had never found out she was a Grimm. As if the _woge_ was a figment of her imagination; Hank had to watch her back, just in case, but really, he had no idea what he was looking for. The only hint he got that they were dealing with Wesen was the look on Nick's face. They had to handle this case as they would any other; without the knowledge that the world was a whole lot more complicated than what they knew.

Nick left Eloisa Goldman with her card, letting her know it was okay to contact them if she needed anything, and asking if there was anyone she could turn to for help, in dealing with her niece's murder, and in organising a funeral.

"You didn't mention the kid," Hank murmured, as they climbed into the car.

"I think she's had enough of a shock for one day," Nick sighed, glancing through the window at Miss Goldman's pretty house. It was hard to believe, sitting in a neighbourhood like this, that such brutal things happened in the world.

"Did you see the photos in the house?" Hank asked.

"Of Candice Goldman? Yeah, I saw them," Nick sighed. "Her mother was a mess, but Candice was definitely beloved. In her file, it said Candice was put in the hospital a few times as a kid; Eloisa petitioned the court to take custody of her, but was refused."

"Imagine how Candice's life would've turned out if the court had allowed it," Hank shook his head.

"I'm guessing that's exactly what Eloisa's been doing the last three years," Nick said. "This is one of those times that I _hate_ the system. Sometimes it does more harm than good."

* * *

"What the –?" Hank sighed, shaking his head, at the state of their desks. Cardboard boxes were piled up, evidence and paperwork on old cases.

"I see you found my gift," Wu smirked. He glanced at Nick. "Pulled all the files on Mary-Elizabeth Cassel like you asked, got a hit on another two open murder-cases with our guy's MO. Tiffany Valente, nineteen, found in a back-alley five years ago. Ligature marks are identical. Alyssa Grover, her body was found last year on an access road to Mount Hood. They're both cold-cases, I had all the files brought up."

"So we've got four victims," Hank said, as Nick took a manila folder from Wu.

"Four's good," Nick murmured, frowning at the file. "Four gives us patterns. And maybe a couple mistakes."

"Let's get to work," Hank said, glad they had stopped for lunch on the way back to the Precinct. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

"Hank. Nicolette. What've you got," a voice said, and Hank glanced up to find the Captain. They had been working solidly for three hours, piecing together what they knew of Candice Goldman's case, connecting her to the three other girls whose bodies had been found in similar circumstances. Hank glanced at Nick, who nodded, taking a deep breath.

"A body turned up this morning. Candice Goldman was a runaway and drug-addict, reported missing three years ago; her body was found at the side of a freeway," Nick said, gesturing to the last two images on their board, two photographs of Candice Goldman, her last arrest photo and a crime-scene photograph, side-by-side and absurdly different. "She's the last of four known victims all murdered by the same guy; ligature marks from restraints and their cause of death are identical, except the first. We're still waiting for Harper to determine the cause of death officially as asphyxiation by chain but… I recognise the signature. The victims were all between nineteen to twenty-one years old at the time of their deaths, runaways. Mary-Elizabeth Cassel was reported missing by her parents when she was sixteen, a history of running away from home, problems with partying that got out of hand, she was arrested for drunk and disorderly, petty theft and possession. She was one of my earliest cases. Her parents are good people… This is Alyssa Grover, last seen when she was seventeen years old; she was in a group-home, reported missing by one of the other girls who lived there. Said Alyssa had been trying to turn her life around. Alyssa was last seen on surveillance footage in a _Macy's_ , no-one connected it at the time but she shoplifted a good four hundred dollars' worth of clothes and jewellery. Her friend said she was most likely fencing it for drugs."

"And the fourth?"

"Tiffany Valente. She was dumped in an alley near an abandoned dockyard six years ago. The ligature marks are consistent with the other victims," Nick said. "They're all pretty Caucasians, between sixteen and nineteen at the time of their disappearances. Each of these girls were sexually assaulted frequently over the course of their captivity, really quite brutally, and they endured it for a long time. There's an average of two years between the girls disappearing and them turning up dead. Wherever they were kept, they were restrained. They each have the same ligature marks on their wrists and ankles."

"So our man likes chains."

"Mary-Elizabeth Cassel, Alyssa Grover and Candice Goldman were all asphyxiated," Nick said. "It's easier to garrotte someone with a chain than strangle them with your bare hands."

"So our guy abducts high-risk girls, keeps them restrained, rapes them over the course of years, and dumps their bodies, and no-one has found any leads on him," Renard frowned, settling back against Nick's desk as she stood in front of their board, all of the most important information pinned there.

"These girls were runaways, it's likely they were abducted from different cities, their bodies were found in different counties," Hank said.

"This guy knows what he's doing," Renard sighed. "Do we have any idea why he kept these girls so long?" Hank exchanged a dark look with Nick.

"Candice's autopsy report will show the most important link between these victims," Nick said sadly.

"We think she was pregnant," Hank said grimly.

"She had just given birth," Nick corrected. "Very soon after, she was killed."

"How soon after?"

"Within at least a few days. Alyssa Grover's autopsy report showed she suffered miscarriages, but she carried her last pregnancy to term and delivered the baby. The drugs in her system suggests she was induced with an artificial hormone," Nick said.

"She was on a schedule," Renard frowned. "If she lost the child, our guy would get her pregnant again immediately. He's forcing these girls to become mothers, before he kills them. What about the fourth victim, the first girl who was found?"

"Tiffany Valente," Nick said, frowning at the photograph. Dark-haired and beautiful in the photograph her parents had given the police, angry and bruised in her arrest photo, plump and healthy and beautiful again even in her death. None of the girls looked alike; Tiffany was brunette, Mary-Elizabeth and Candice Goldman blonde, Alyssa Grover was a vivid redhead. Physically they were different, too; Alyssa was petite, Candice Goldman tall and willowy, Tiffany athletic, Mary-Elizabeth was curvy. Hank looked at the photos, and with dread in his stomach he wondered if Candice Goldman – all of the girls – were chosen by their perp because they were Wesen. "We think she was the first victim. But she was the only one who wasn't asphyxiated. And that's because her cause of death was massive multi-organ failure due to eclampsia. She was in her seventh month of pregnancy; she didn't deliver the child before she died."

"What about Candice Goldman? Were there any signs of the infant?" Renard asked.

"No, and that worries me. My initial thought was, what if he's killing them specifically _because_ they got pregnant and gave birth – but he chooses to abduct girls who because of their age are at their most fertile. And after reading Alyssa Grover's autopsy report, he _wants_ them pregnant. He dumped each girl's body like she was trash, I'm wondering if they weren't just the means to an end."

"What if it's the babies he wants?" Renard confirmed, and Nick nodded.

"Each of our victims had records; these are photos taken when they were arrested, and, well…we've seen Candice Goldman," Nick said. "At the time of her death, she was healthy, well-nourished, it was a healthy pregnancy; the same was true of Alyssa Grover, and Mary-Elizabeth Cassel. In both of their autopsies, the M.E. found a cocktail of prenatal drugs in their system, as well as the hormone to induce labour."

"We've got a sexual-sadist who abducts young women, chains them up, rapes them – but gives them prenatal drugs to ensure as healthy a pregnancy as possible, then murders them after they deliver his children," Renard frowned.

"What kind of serial-killer does that?"

"The kind that looks after the babies," Hank sighed, shaking his head. "He protects the infants but gets off on torturing the mothers."

"Do you think he's keeping the children?"

"The M.E. at the scene said Candice Goldman had been dead barely two hours when we arrived," Hank said.

"So whoever he is, he had a dead body and a newborn to deal with, and that's even more alarming," Nick winced. "Who looked after the baby while he dumped the body?"

"An accomplice?"

"Or…he has more girls locked away."

"A harem of imprisoned women forced to bear their captor's children isn't unheard of," Renard pointed out.

"There is an overlap between all four of these girls, when they were last seen and when a body surfaced," Nick said. "As if there's already another girl ready to take the place of the one he's killed."

"We're compiling missing person's reports right now, it's possible now he's killed Candice he needs another girl to fill her place, or he's already snatched one, but he doesn't have a specific victimology," Hank sighed, staring at the four girls.

"So we've got a serial-killer abducting young women, to impregnate them, murder them just after delivery," Renard sighed. "Do we have any ideas what he's doing with the babies?"

"We're not near enough the border to make me think human-trafficking but it's always a possibility," Hank said. "We've got calls in with Child Protective Services and adoption agencies across the city."

"Unless he's keeping some of them," Nick remarked, glancing away from the board.

"Why do you say 'some'?"

"He's kept these girls long enough they might've delivered more than one child," Nick said. "Mary-Elizabeth, Alyssa and Candice were all healthy young women. Mary-Elizabeth and Alyssa hadn't had complications like Tiffany did; they were late-teens, early-twenties when their bodies were found. They were so young, they had at least a decade of potential childbearing before them, so why did he kill them? If he wants the children, what prompted him to get rid of these girls so soon after childbirth?"

The Captain sighed heavily, staring at their board. After a moment, he spoke up: "You've got a lot to go on already," Renard said, glancing at Nick. "You won't be able to do more until Harper finishes the autopsy on Candice Goldman. Both of you go home, you can pick this up first thing." Hank raised his eyebrows in surprise, glancing between Nick and the Captain, who was giving Nick a sidelong look. He remembered they had been walking back together from the bakery this morning, and wondered about it. The Captain sighed at the board, at the four girls' photographs, and made his way back to his office.

He raised her eyebrows at the Captain, grinning at Nick. "You think he's feeling okay?"

"I don't know!" Nick laughed softly. "You heading home?"

"I'm not gonna look a gift-horse in the mouth," Hank chuckled. "Besides, no more we can do tonight. Ballistics won't get back to us on the corner-store holdup 'til Thursday, we've got a warrant out on Dougie Collins and we've got Amber and Amelia Rossini coming in first thing to make statements; Harper's got a full refrigerator and won't be done with Candice Goldman's autopsy until the end of the week… So, obey your superior officer; get your butt home and get some sleep."

"I make no promises," Nick said grimly. She sighed and glanced at the photographs of the four girls, at the picture of Mary-Elizabeth Cassel.

"She one of the ghosts, Nick?" he asked. He'd told her about a few of his; he was learning a little more every day about the walk-in closet that contained the skeletons Nick had created.

"Yeah," Nick nodded, tugging on her jacket, and Hank led the way to the parking-garage. "Her parents are just…the nicest people."

" _Are_?"

"We're still in contact," Nick said quietly. "I see them every few months; we exchange Christmas cards and they've sponsored my marathons, I talk to Mrs Cassel on the phone occasionally – she brought a casserole over when I woke up from the coma. I ate the whole thing in one sitting… I guess they lost their daughter, and they know I'm on my own… I – _hate_ that they know what happened to their daughter and I couldn't give them any justice for her."

"Well, now maybe we can," Hank sighed. "Give them some closure."

"I think we're going to unearth a lot more questions that…maybe will make the wounds hurt even more," Nick said. "If all of those girls were forced into motherhood before they were murdered, it's more than likely Mary-Elizabeth was too. And we have no idea if these children survived, if they're…lost."

"Candice Goldman may help us find this guy. And those kids," Hank reassured her. "Hey – back at Eloisa Goldman's house…you seemed wigged out. You're not usually squeamish about crying women. Everything okay?"

"Just thought I saw something, that's all," Nick said, shrugging, pulling her car-keys out of her purse.

"What'd you see?" he coaxed gently. "Come on. Make my day. Take my mind off my impending microwave-dinner."

"A fox."

"Well, she was pretty," Hank shrugged, glancing at her, and waved her goodbye. A fox. Like Rosalee. What did she call herself – a _Fuchsbau_.

He hoped Candice Goldman wasn't a Wesen – or that her being Wesen had anything to do with why she was abducted. Maybe it didn't matter – she was a victim, it was his job to find whoever had done this to her. But he had no idea how Nick had been able to keep it a secret that she had this… _gift_. How she had kept it secret that she knew the secrets behind the most mysterious mind-bending cases he had ever worked. The details no other cop could unearth because they were blind to a world no-one else knew existed.

How had she handled living a double-life for so long? Figuring out how to do it, on her own?

Hank smiled sadly to himself, pulling on his seatbelt. Whatever Nicolette Burkhardt attempted, she conquered.

* * *

 **A.N.** : What do you guys think?


	4. Gretel's Breadcrumbs

**A.N.** : For _BadWolf89_ who reminded me that I like this story too!

* * *

 **Fantastic Beasts and How to Fight Them**

 _03_

 _Gretel's Breadcrumbs_

* * *

Being sent home before seven p.m. was unusual for her; she celebrated by taking Chorizo, her mini Dachshund, for a walk around the block, and set up a hot date with a grocery list and her ironing board. She never noticed how often her job ate into her free time until she looked at the contents of her refrigerator, or at her ironing pile, and then dread would creep into the pit of her stomach.

To take her mind off Candice Goldman, and the memories this dead girl dredged up with Mary-Elizabeth Cassel – or maybe to help focus on the details she needed – she celebrated her early night by letting her animals run wild in the living-room as she set up her ironing board, brought out her DVD case and ordered Hawaiian takeout. Chorizo and Phoebe the hedgehog scurried around the living-room, best-friends, while the bunnies – Lilac, Holland, Dumbledore and Geronimo – hopped about, and Apricot and Uno the hamsters bumped around in their balls and she frowned, trying to remember what had happened to Chanice Kobolowski, her ginger tabby.

She had scratched Nicolette, for the first time ever.

Serenaded by the bagpipes of _Brave_ and missing her mother and Aunt Marie, regretting some of the arguments and choices she had made as a teenager, she FaceTimed with Rosalee, having a boring night going through inventory of a late delivery at the Spice Shop. She spent the evening chatting with Rosalee, restocking her kitchen, cooking up a week's worth of meals, sandwiches, snacks and cakes, and making her way through a three-feet-high pile of ironing (rediscovering clothes she had forgotten she owned, including her two favourite pairs of socks), frowning every time she pulled a man's shirt out of the pile.

She bid Rosalee goodnight, the inherent cop in her telling her to be careful as she left the shop, and to text when she was home, put away all her freshly-ironed clothes, tidied up the kitchen, and groaned as she settled on the sofa in her pyjamas, a cocktail in one hand and the remote in the other, the quilt Phoebe Wurstner had made for her ages ago tucked over her legs.

"Guys – we are in for a _good_ night," she assured Phoebe and Chorizo, cuddled up side by side in Chorizo's bed, as Lilac hopped past. She groaned and settled on the sofa, "I just wish you could spell, though. Bananagrams just isn't the same on your own." She eyed the coffee-table, a mess of sketchbooks and _Bananagrams_ tiles. She hit Play on the remote, starting to align tiles, and frowned at the sketchbooks. Sipping her cocktail, she frowned, and picked one of them up, leafing through the pages, a niggling feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if she should know more about the illustrations she had drawn, coloured so meticulously, down to the last detail. They were _too_ detailed – some of them too gruesome, too disturbing, to have been made up even with her imagination.

Unconsciously, she reached for her drawing pencils – an expensive gift from someone, hundreds of high-quality coloured pencils encased in polished wood – and turned to the next clean page. Ever since she was a kid, she had seen _things_. Monsters hiding under people's skin. Glowing eyes, forked tongues – skeletal witches and shrieking hyenas lurking beneath cheerleader's perfectly beautiful veneers, bull-headed Varsity jocks, snakelike thugs and jaguar-like marathon-runners. Aunt Marie used to smile sadly at the sketches she found in all of Nicolette's school notebooks, turning the girls who bullied her and the boys she chased after into hideous monsters, or sweet Minotaurs worthy of fairytales. They weren't all bad; sometimes she had seen pandas beneath the kind face and glasses, or lions tackling the centre-forward on the soccer-field, the two Marines she had known since college, brave lions and stubborn, bull-like. The hyenas and shy lambs, the ribbon-winning hurdling bunny and the elegant Siamese cats of her adolescence had given way to scaly reptilian monsters, criminals, brutish coyotes and nasty ratlike sneaks, aggressive warthogs, predatory lizards that were obviously the by-product of too much _Jurassic Park_.

She twirled a pencil between her fingers, settled back in the sofa, and started to draw, Eloisa Goldman on her mind, annoyed by something she knew she should be remembering, saddened and upset by the discovery of another victim who had met the same brutal end as Mary-Elizabeth Cassel. She hadn't been a Detective long before Mary-Elizabeth had been discovered.

There were cases in any police-officer's life – any emergency-service responder, actually – that tested them, stuck with them, branded to their souls. Some people discovered they weren't truly ready to see the world in such intimately brutal ways. Others thrived on the hunt, carving out the evil in the world. Nicolette was the latter. She had never tolerated bullies, after being treated so badly herself by Mean Girls. She had been a pretty, outgoing girl, athletic and naturally clever – she had loved boys and thrills, and because she moved so often had learned to put herself out there; she hadn't been afraid to walk up to the boy she thought was cute and kiss him on the lips, just to know what it would be like.

She was as tenacious in her detective work as she had always been in everything in her life; her anger that Mary-Elizabeth Cassel had never had any justice still drove her, though she had learned not to take too much of the job home with her. When she got to the porch step, she shed the Detective, ready to put on her sloth-patterned socks, make herself a Moscow Mule, blast her favourite music and bake, or dance at her ironing-board, chat with her friends on the phone or her take her godson to the sports-park to hit whiffle-balls with Chorizo, take ballroom and Latin dance lessons, practice her piano, meet friends for dinner or spend a chill evening with her sketchbooks to exorcise her imaginary demons.

Without really paying attention to what she was drawing, she sketched Eloisa Goldman, the woman, and her _woge_ – she didn't know where she had come up with the name, maybe it was the side-effects of her ongoing German language-lessons, but that was how she had come to describe the way her face changed, showing the pretty amber-eyed fox beneath. Shading the eyes was the most difficult part, they weren't just yellow – they were _alive_ ; she saw down into the depths of Eloisa Goldman's soul, steady and vibrant and calm, gentle. She thought of Rosalee, for some reason, associating with her eyes the clear sparkle of hard cider, the vibrancy of amber, the tangy, sweet warmth of marmalade, the warmth and danger of fire. She frowned to herself, thinking – that wasn't right: Rosalee had dark eyes. She bit her lip, thinking of Rosalee, wondering why she associated her brown eyes with fire, and chose colours that reminded her of honey and yams and red-gold, trying to get the warmth and sorrow and serenity of Eloisa Goldman's grieving amber eyes, thinking of Candice Goldman and her missing infant, of Tiffany Valente and the pregnancy that was her death-sentence, of Mary-Elizabeth Cassel.

Why those girls. Why force pregnancy on them, only to kill them?

She glanced down at her foot as Chorizo tried to nibble on her toe, then frowned at her sketchbook. She set it aside and reached down to rub Chorizo's tummy. "When I check into the nut-house I'll make sure they have therapy animals," she promised, "I wouldn't want to leave you without a mommy. I love you."

Chorizo sneezed.

And she gazed down at Chorizo, at her bunnies cuddled up, at Phoebe waddling about, at the hamsters bumping gently against the refrigerator-door. Her children.

Tiffany Valente, dead of eclampsia, her body dumped; Alyssa Grover's miscarriages; Candice Goldman's missing infant.

It was all about the babies.

They might bring justice to their mothers.

Nicolette turned off her TV, put her babies to bed, glanced one last time at her sketchbook with a smile, and made her way up to bed.

She knew things were missing from her memory, but she was still a damned good detective.

 _The children_ , she thought, the children were the bread-crumbs…like Hansel and Gretel… She turned her light out, and slept.

* * *

She stood at the board, pins between her teeth, arms full of photographs and documents and pieces of coloured string. The office was quieter than usual, late in the week with several other calls taking her fellow detectives and sergeants all over the city; after a little walk with Chorizo, a fierce workout and a cool shower, a lovely breakfast of Eggs Royale (sadly _sans_ mimosas, on account of the badge at her hip) with her long-time friend Cecelia, the mother of her godson, she was refreshed and ready to take on the world. Or, at least the dregs of Portland. Baby-steps.

It was her first new case since waking from the coma and dreams of Mary-Elizabeth Cassel kept haunting her, even driving away her nightmares. She had slept better than she had in a while, maybe it was something to do with the fierce drive to find the scum who had done this to not one, not two but _four_ girls – and the babies. But she couldn't keep going on fumes, and no amount of coffee in the world could make up for a decent night's sleep. Her mind knew what her body needed and had shut off; she had slept, packing in a few good solid hours of REM before gently being woken by Chorizo pining at the bottom of the stairs.

Nick heard someone sigh. "Nicolette… First in again. I hope you went home last night." She glanced over her shoulder, saw the Captain giving her a wry look, standing there, all tall, dark and handsome in his custom-tailored shirt with those doorframe-wrecking shoulders. She flicked her eyes over him, wondering why it was that she had suddenly noticed his pretty eyes, unsettled but titillated by the flutter in her stomach at the thought of how firm his lips were. She shouldn't have those thoughts about her Captain…but it was absurd that she _hadn't_. She had two eyes and brains in her head; she would be an idiot not to notice him.

That didn't mean that she hadn't been daydreaming about her time with him at the café, her mind going back to the tiny details he had told her about himself – raised in Vienna; educated in Switzerland; close with his mother but angry at his extended family. He was a very curious man. Those four things she had learned at the café were all she knew about the Captain's personal life. He was tall, dark and mysterious.

"Of course I did, I'm not a neglectful mother," she teased, smiling. "I've got babies at home who need me." She plucked the pins from her mouth and unhooked the Sharpie from the collar of her favourite red blouse, grabbing her ruler out of her pocket to connect the last two dots indicated with pins on the map of Portland. She glanced at the Captain's suit. "Looks like someone's meeting with the Mayor."

"It's necessary," Renard sighed, frowning mildly at the board.

"I hope it's not one of mine," Nicolette said. She always hated the politics side of the Police Department. She did her job to the best of her abilities; she had learned to take it on the chin when a verdict didn't go the way they wanted, when connections ensured someone walked, when politics got in the way of justice. The biggest scum-bags were the city's 'elite'. Renard was a great Captain for a lot of reasons, and one of those was his ability to navigate stormy political waters with grace. She didn't think she'd ever heard him raise his voice to anyone, made a point of not talking down to people or making them feel inferior.

"Thankfully, no," Renard smiled. "You've not caused much upset lately."

"Well, I was in a coma." Renard chuckled.

"What've you been working on?"

"Harper had Candice Goldman's autopsy report ready first-thing. I was cuddling with my menagerie last night and couldn't stop thinking about the babies," she said softly, wrapping a piece of green string between two pins. She had always used colour-coded string; Hank knew her system and couldn't remember working any other way. "Candice Goldman carried her last pregnancy to term, the child was healthy. But her delivery was difficult, and some of the placenta was still attached to her uterus when she was killed."

"So we have the child's DNA."

"We have her DNA. Candice gave birth to a daughter. Every child in the adoption system goes through basic genetic screening to check for existing medical conditions; if the little girl shows up, we'll know about it," Nicolette said, with some satisfaction, though it was fleeting. "Without proper medical attention, the placenta still attached to Candice Goldman's uterus would have caused all kinds of problems, would have ultimately led to her death anyway. That makes me think that whoever our perp's accomplice is, they aren't medically trained for midwifery. They're familiar with prenatal drugs to enhance fertility, perhaps an indication they've been struggling to get pregnant themselves, but they don't know that even without proper medical facilities and equipment, they could have removed the remaining placenta and saved Candice's life."

"They could? How?"

"By hand," Nicolette winced. "I'm not an expert, having not delivered children myself, but Harper confirms that…things were stretched far enough that…a woman with a delicate hand might've bene able to reach inside and remove the placenta."

The Captain blinked. "Right."

"So they either were not aware they could - or they were prevented from doing so," Renard said, and Nicolette nodded.

"Harper said Candice Goldman was killed within minutes of her delivery," she said. "I doubt they even knew something was wrong before they killed her."

"After being restrained so long…something about her delivery triggered a murderous response in our perp," Renard said, frowning at the board.

"Given how long she was held prisoner, this last may not have been Candice Goldman's only pregnancy," Nicolette said. "Harper's taking a closer look, but she said there's indication of at least one miscarriage."

"If these children are in the system, they'll lead us to our perp," Renard said, his eyes lighting up as he checked over the other documents she had pinned up.

"We're still talking hundreds of children, so I had Child Protective Services send over files on all of the children who entered the foster-system within a two-week period of our victims' bodies being found," Nicolette said, indicating the boxes piled on the spare desk. "I discounted all children born _in_ the hospital, focusing on the infants left in safe havens, and came up with this pile."

"And the map?"

"Our guy was clever with the mothers, covering their tracks through sheer distance. Tiffany, Mary-Elizabeth, Alyssa and Candice were each abducted and dumped miles apart, across different county lines. But Candice Goldman hadn't been dead long when her body was dumped. Look at this – these pins indicate where newborns were abandoned in safe-havens in the first couple weeks after each victim was found."

"You can drop an infant off at a hospital or church or firehouse, no questions asked. Someone knows the State will take good care of the child," Renard said. "That's not the action of a man who brutally rapes and murders these girls. Someone cared about the babies, enough to ensure they would be looked after. They weren't left to die in a dumpster, or buried in the yard."

"And that just further reinforces my belief that we're dealing with more than one perp," Nicolette said grimly. "These girls were kept chained and were frequently raped, pregnancy after pregnancy forced on them, but they were also healthy, cared for."

"Could we be looking for a couple, perhaps, creating a family they can't conceive? Replacing a child they lost?" Renard pondered.

"I think, maybe. With the cocktail of fertility drugs in their system… We're looking for a man with a history of sexual violence, if he's married I wouldn't be surprised that his wife made frequent visits to the E.R., including for either a miscarriage, or maybe a stillbirth," Nicolette said, eyeing the profile she and Hank had been working on based on the evidence Candice Goldman's and the other girls' murders gave them. "That might explain why he has a willing partner. If he's a sexual sadist, he gets to brutalise these girls; the partner gets the children. But if they kept the children…"

"They didn't keep all of them," Renard said, thumbing through the pile of manila folders on top of Hank's keyboard. She had run out of any other space. "Nicolette, these infants you deduced to – have you looked at their files?"

"No, right now I'm focused on birth-dates and the safe-havens they were left at," Nicolette said, glancing away from her map. "Why?"

"You just uncovered another pattern."

"I did? Brilliant. Love it when I do that," Nicolette blinked, surprised. "What is it?"

"Caitlin, Grace, Erica, Ruby," Renard said, glancing up at her.

"They don't want daughters," she murmured, striding over to look through the files herself. She glanced up at the Captain, struck by just _how_ tall he was, and she pushed 5'6 ½" without heels. She could smell his cologne, noticed how pretty his eyes were, and hid a blush as he appeared to gaze down at her. She cleared her throat. Digging through the files, she glanced back at her board, where Candice Goldman's photograph smiled back at her. Softly, she said, "Candice Goldman just gave birth to a little girl."

Renard's features hardened. "And they killed her because of it."

Nicolette flicked through the files she had organised, the Caucasian babies left within the two-week windows after the murders of Mary-Elizabeth Cassel and Alyssa Grover, and any other children abandoned at safe-havens in the last six years.

The sheer scope of their perp's operation seemed daunting; six years, how many girls? Had Tiffany Valente been the first?

And her heart sank, Mary-Elizabeth Cassel's autopsy-report catching her eye; she flicked through it, and grabbed Alyssa Grover's autopsy-report, speed-reading through the same section. She glanced up at Renard. "When Mary-Elizabeth Cassel and Alyssa Grover's bodies were found, they were tested for secondary DNA. They didn't find any belonging to our perp, but they didn't _look_ for DNA belonging to infants."

Renard frowned, taking one of the autopsy reports from her. "Your first victim – "

"Tiffany Valente."

"—what about her?"

"Her child died in utero. A little boy. He was…still there."

"Paternal DNA would link our victims," Renard said softly. Nicolette glanced at him, her stomach sinking. He sighed, sharing her dark look.

"We're going to have to exhume the other girls," she said softly. Renard nodded.

"This will reopen up a lot of sore wounds. Everything these families have had taken from them…even the smallest shred of hope can be devastating," he said. "Have the paperwork organised, call families in."

"This is gonna _suck_ ," Nicolette groaned, rubbing her face. She had been in contact with Mr and Mrs Cassel for years, ever since their daughter was found murdered, discarded like trash. To ask their permission to dig up her body, cut open what remained of her – to discover whether her captor, rapist and murderer had left his DNA on her through that of the _child_ he had forced on her, a child they had no idea had even survived.

"Given the circumstances, I'll meet the families with you," Renard said softly. "This will need to be handled delicately."

"Everything they know happened to their girls, we're just going to add more grief and horror," she sighed.

"But hopefully, we can finally give them some answers," Renard said. "Maybe they may find consolation in their grandchildren."

"Maybe… Maybe it'll drive the hurt deeper," she murmured.

"You're not your usual optimistic self, Nicolette," Renard said, glancing at her. He sat perched on the edge of her desk, arms crossed over his chest as he frowned at the board.

"Mary-Elizabeth Cassel was one of my very first cases. She was one of the ones that…made me second-guess whether I was really up for this," she admitted softly. "I…guess I let her too close."

"Close can be good," the Captain said, glancing at her. "Sometimes we need that reminder of why we put that badge on every morning."

"I just…hate that it took three other girls to be brutalised the same way for us to do anything about him," Nicolette said sadly. "The world should not work this way."

"'Thus has it always been, and thus shall it ever be'," Renard quoted grimly.

"That's not inspiring."

"Not without people like you, who puts on her badge every day and comes to work in spite of every brutal thing you've seen," Renard said.

Nicolette caught his eye and smiled. "Better."

* * *

"You okay?" Hank asked, and Nicolette glanced up, fidgeting with her pen. She drained her coffee, then regretted it, the lukewarm gritty dregs of her drink curdling in her stomach, along with the dread.

She had made the phone-calls, Mr and Mrs Cassel and Mr Grover, asking them to come by the Precinct. They had already met with Mr Grover, who had signed the release form but didn't want to know about any children forced upon his daughter. Mr and Mrs Cassel…they were on their way.

"I'm okay, I just…am not looking forward to this conversation," she admitted. "The Cassels are really nice people, and they're…just coming out of a very dark place… I worry that we're going to upset them again, for no reason."

"What's your gut tell you?"

"They still love their daughter," Nicolette said quietly. "Even after everything she put them through, everything they know happened to her… They still love her, and they miss her. They regret the choices they made."

"You said you see them occasionally," Hank said. "Are you gonna be okay on this?"

"I want to make sure she's looked after, Hank," Nicolette said softly, glancing at her partner. "These girls deserve that."

They were just as she remembered, since the last time she had seen the both of them together, meeting them for a steak breakfast after Mrs Cassel's one-hundred kilometre charity-walk. Nicolette had circulated the fundraising appeal around the Precinct. Jed Cassel, grey-haired and sad-eyed, and Evelyn Cassel, warm, kind, in her late-fifties and…hopeful. Knowing what she did of them, Nicolette couldn't imagine why their daughter had ever fled her home, and when her body was first discovered, Nicolette had found herself angry at Mary-Elizabeth for taking her family for granted. The more she got to know Evelyn and Jed, the angrier she had become; she had lost her own wonderful parents; Mary-Elizabeth had rejected hers.

"Mr and Mrs Cassel…thank you for coming in," the Captain said gently.

"Nicolette said you – you're looking back into Mary-Elizabeth's death again?" Mr Cassel said, glancing from Nicolette to Hank to the Captain.

"Why don't you take a seat?" the Captain suggested. "A young-woman was found dead earlier last week. She may have been killed by the same man as your daughter. With the discoveries our detectives have made from the most recent victim…we would like to ask your permission to exhume Mary-Elizabeth's body."

"You – you want to dig up our daughter?" Mrs Cassel said, her face falling, calm horror settling in her eyes, and she glanced with gentle reproach at Nicolette.

"We think whoever killed Mary-Elizabeth may have left DNA on her," Nicolette said gently. "His other victims…had DNA that links to him, and to Mary-Elizabeth."

"Back when you first found her, you said they didn't find his DNA," Mr Cassel said.

"It's…not his DNA we're looking for," Hank said softly.

"We suspect your daughter may have given birth while she was captive," the Captain said quietly. Mr and Mrs Cassel glanced from the Captain, looking horror-struck, to Nicolette.

"What?" Mr Cassel's face went stark, and Nicolette gulped as his face shimmered, hair sprouting all over, greyish auburn and white, his eyes glowing amber. Nicolette's heart sped up, but she no longer feared what she thought she saw; she had seen this before. She had seen Mr and Mrs Cassel's faces flicker into foxes – finding out your daughter had been abducted, raped and murdered would bring out the emotion in a person, and Nicolette saw the monsters that lived underneath people's skin when they were emotional.

"The girl who was found last week had given birth within hours of her death," Nicolette said quietly. "Whoever did this to her, and to Mary-Elizabeth, may be putting the babies into the adoption system."

"The baby's alive?" Mrs Cassel whispered, and Nicolette started, glancing quickly away, as her face changed, shimmering, auburn fur sprouting everywhere, her ears sharpening, amber eyes glowing, brimming with emotion.

"It's possible," the Captain said, "but we don't want to fill you with false-hope."

"If there are traces of placental tissue on Mary-Elizabeth, we can test the DNA against the State's records," Nicolette said softly. "Maybe find any children she bore."

"We're hopeful that we can link all of the victims, including Mary-Elizabeth, through their children," Hank said.

"And they may lead us to whoever did this to your daughter," Nicolette said.

Mrs Cassel caught Nicolette's eye, her face normal again, sparkling with tears, and she said softly, without a tremor in her voice, "Give us the release."

Nicolette caught the Captain's eye as Mr and Mrs Cassel signed the paperwork. His smile was sad and knowing; she had known they would agree to exhume Mary-Elizabeth. How could they not? That spark of _hope_ … The possibility - the _what if_ …it was irresistible. Empires had fallen because of the possibility of _what if_ …

They would catch this animal, because bereft parents were willing to stake on _what if_ …

And Nick's stomach churned with anxiety, realising that in putting so much faith in the lost babies, they had given the parents _hope_. The hope that after all this tragedy, they might get something _good_ … Grandchildren. Life continuing after their daughters' deaths. But to bring the babies into it, to tell Mr and Mrs Cassel that there was _possibility_ … What did that mean for the babies that had been adopted out of the system, had families, and parents who loved them, would fight to protect them - even from their own biological family?

* * *

Hours later, Nicolette frowned, squatting down to brush wet leaves and debris from a new granite grave-marker, placing vibrant orange chrysanthemums in the buried vase. Aunt Marie's gravesite. She was the only person who would ever visit, she knew. It was a small plaque, the sum of her aunt's life summed up in a few phrases and a date. Her life, reduced to a hyphen. Her sacrifices, untold. She had been asked to be cremated, and after everything she had done for Nicolette, who was she to ignore her wishes? Even if the idea of cremation made Nicolette cringe.

Aunt Marie had given up her life, her fiancé, the future she had wanted, to raise Nicolette. She would have done anything - had _killed_ to protect Nick. What wouldn't Mr and Mrs Cassel do for their grandchildren?

* * *

She sat at her desk, waiting for emails and phone-calls to bombard her, staring at the board and ruminating on the details they had - and the information they were missing, which was far too much. They had the girls, and Harper was putting the examinations of the exhumed bodies on priority, but waiting was always the worst part. It gave her far too much time to think, and with the stacks of files she had been going through from Child Protective Services she couldn't stop thinking about the babies. They were waiting for the DNA of Candice Goldman's daughter to come back with any matches in the system; but if their guy hadn't dumped the child yet…

"What're you thinking about?" a voice asked.

" _Voodoo Donuts_ ," Nicolette lied, then glanced up at the Captain with a humourless smile. She sighed, gesturing at the open files in front of her. The babies. "What'll happen, if we find them? The children who were given away?" Renard sighed heavily, sinking into Hank's empty chair.

"If something illegal transpired during the adoption process, the court will nullify it," Renard said, taking the nearest file and examining the photographs of a little girl with angelic curls beaming with her foster-parents. "The child gets returned to the closest blood relative." Nicolette grimaced, shaking her head.

"But - it's not the adoptive parents' fault no-one knew these babies have this history," Nicolette winced. "How can we then turn around and say they have no right to the babies? They've homed them, cared for them, loved them… They have families. _Parents_ – if these children are with wonderful people who adore them, want to give them the best life…surely they have as much right to these kids as anyone else?"

"What's got you thinking about this?"

Nick glanced at the Captain. It would be in her files, anyway, so he most likely knew, but… "When my parents died, I was in the foster-system for a little while, until Aunt Marie came to claim me… It was a long time before I forgave her for that. The family I was placed with were wonderful, they were stable and supportive… But Aunt Marie was blood, it was written in my parents' will that they wanted her to take custody of me, so…that was that. Marie was wonderful, and supportive, but we moved around a _lot_ … Part of me is worried that the parents of the murdered girls…won't necessarily do what they think is best for the children, but…want to take the children because their own were stolen from them."

Renard nodded slowly, his eyes on the girls on their board. "If Eloisa Goldman had been granted custody of her niece, Candice's life would've turned out very differently."

"But – what if the children have been adopted, and…we rip the kids away…?" Nicolette asked, getting agitated, memories of her brief stay with the foster-family she had adored, had gotten her through the worst of it, coming to the fore.

"What if we're doing more harm than good?" Renard said softly, and Nicolette nodded.

"Yeah."

"Time will tell. But you've always trusted your gut-instinct," Renard said. "It's part of what makes you invaluable to our team here… And the Cassels, at least, seem like good people. What do you think?"

"I think they'd do what was best for the children, no matter how painful it is," Nicolette said, eyes on the photograph of Mary-Elizabeth Cassel.

"Then you're doing the right thing."

* * *

 **A.N.** : I know, you're still in shock from receiving an update! It was only in April I updated last!


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